From the dark corner of the bar, I watched as my wife, Sarah, was chatted up by a strange man. They sat close together in the booth, and Sarah was clearly enjoying his attentions, laughing at his jokes, and frequently putting her hand on his when she did so. Once every few minutes or so, she shot a glance in my direction.
I was wired tight with nervous tension as I observed this man clearly scoring with my wife. I could tell from their positions and postures that they touched under the table. Maybe just hand on leg. Maybe more. I felt excited but I couldn’t tell if it was with anticipation, regret, or both. How far would she take this? How far would I let her?
She glanced over at me, drinking from her gin and tonic (which she held with her left hand despite being right-handed – what was she doing with her right hand under that table?). I could tell she was trying to communicate something to me with that look. She downed her drink and suddenly got up from the table and started towards the dance floor, and he followed right behind her, grabbing her hand. Once on the floor, he danced against her from behind, with his arms on her hips as they gyrated together to the beat. She let her head fall back against his chest and reached her hands above her head to interlace her fingers behind his neck, so that her body was stretched out and available as his hands slid up from her hips, to the sides of her belly, the edges of her breasts.
I was consumed with burning jealousy. I had an aching hard-on.
The plan for this little adventure had been a couple of months in the making. The seed of it was a major crisis in our marriage that had very nearly ended in our divorce. I had found incriminating texts on her phone. She had been secretly texting, and meeting, another man. She denied that it was anything sexual, but agreed that it was a betrayal, and begged forgiveness. I wasn’t sure I believed that it hadn’t gotten sexual (why else does a married woman secretly meet another man?), and anyway it didn’t matter – she had betrayed my trust in a way I wasn’t sure I could ever forgive. Also, I knew that if I hadn’t found out and confronted her, it would have eventually become a sexual affair. If it hadn’t already.
After I suffered about a week of painful contemplation about what she had done, and about whether or not I should leave, I found a note under my pillow. It was from her, and in it she detailed all of her favorite moments with me. It was touching and thoughtful, and it was enough, along with my desire to stay together for our children’s sake, to make me decide to give it another try. Things would have to change, though. Especially the sex.
Our sex life, as is common, had gradually cooled over the years of marriage, to the point where it was almost totally extinguished. Our lives hadn’t turned out how we thought. When we married, I was doing postgraduate work in comparative literature. Now I was working as a taxi driver. It was a little humiliating. We felt more like roommates than lovers. If our marriage was going to work, this was going to have to change. I sent the kids to their grandparents’ for a few days, and told Sarah that we were going to fuck like mad and that would tell us whether or not we’d be able to go on.
It was the best sex we’d ever had. We tried positions we’d never tried, and exchanged frank, filthy talk that was uncharacteristic of both of us. Having nothing to lose, we exposed ourselves totally to each other. Her betrayal had shaken me out of my illusions about her. I had previously thought of her as totally innocent and virtuous – she had been a virgin before we were married. Now I saw her as a real flesh and blood woman with all the needs of a woman. Like the need for a good, hot fuck every now and then. I even began to pity her for only ever having had one lover her whole life (we married when she was just twenty one).